


Pronouns

by MarisFerasi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Other, cross dressing, fluid gender, sticky pronouns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 06:33:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3239864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarisFerasi/pseuds/MarisFerasi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John uncovers a trait of Sherlock's that he enjoys... quite thoroughly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pronouns

**Author's Note:**

> I ON PURPOSE used switching pronouns for Sherlock in this, I did it intentionally, and with the blessing of a cross dresser friend of mine. He lives this way, and to me it makes sense that Sherlock would not get hung up on labels either, right? Seems like he would find labels dull.

In reality, it wasn’t nearly as strange as half the other stuff his better half did, but this one was just so…. So bloody _perfect_.

John came home from his surgery—the one he’d opened with Mary—expecting to have a stroppy, six- foot toddler on his hands. He heaved the sigh of the heavily put-upon and unlocked the door, walking up the stairs. It took him until the eighth step to recognize the smell; it was salmon risotto and it smelled… _fucking amazing._ John thought, _well, maybe Sherlock decided to cook,_ and let himself in.

Now, John and Sherlock had been _John and Sherlock_ for about a year at this point. Mary was gone, and the baby hadn’t been his to begin with anyway. He’d moved back in, amongst all the chaos and dirty tea cups and it was as if he’d never left. Except that there was a void still in his heart from when _Sherlock had left._ Well. The giant git fixed that as quick as he typically fixed all other things, plopping down in John’s lap one night and planting a searing kiss on his lips.

It had gone from there. Not exactly downhill, but maybe more like down a rather unpaved turnpike. There you have it. Life with Sherlock was never straightforward.

So anyway, John walked the rest of the way into their flat and closed the door. Sherlock cooking usually ended up with them naked, and no one needed a landlady sticking her nose in things. John dutifully locked the door and shucked his coat and shoes, following his nose into the kitchen.

“Sherlock, honey. This smells _amazi—_ oh!” John paused in the doorway, jaw on the floor.

Sherlock turned and smiled a bit, looking actually kind of…shy. Astounding. He… well, _she_ John supposed, was barefoot in stockings that ran up long, slender legs to a knee-length pale rose cocktail dress. It cinched in at the waist and had little cap sleeves, framing small high breasts with a sweetheart neckline. Sherlock’s curls were done with a bit of product and tamed, in pretty little ringlets. A thick line of mascara framed his eyes, the soft tone of the dress making them pop. A barely-there pink gloss covered his beautiful lips, making John bite his own.

“Not a case?” John asked. This was not…intense enough for a case. Sherlock shook his—her head.

“I…do I refer to you as ‘she’ for now, or what would you prefer, honey?” he asked, remaining defferential. Sherlock had yet to have spoken. The detective’s shoulders dropped about six inches.

“You…you don’t mind it?” Sherlock asked, looking John square in the face, a bit of trepidation in those verdigris eyes. John gave him a bright smile, enough to show him that no, he didn’t mind one bit, but not enough to seem feral.

“Sherlock, I’ve loved you for quite a long time. I surely didn’t see this coming, but by god, no I don’t mind it one bit.” He stepped a bit closer and held out his arms. Sherlock came into them, sinking into the hug as if the tension in his (her?) body was melting against the warmth of his doctor.

“Thank you,” Sherlock mumbled against his shoulder.

“You’re welcome. This is a nice dress,” John commented, roaming his hands over the back and sides of it. He reached around a bit to scoop up Sherlock’s arse a bit and give it a teasing squeeze. A cocked eyebrow was all he let show as he felt the tell-tale bumps of lace undergarments before Sherlock swatted his hand and danced a few steps away, plating up their dinner.

“Go and get more comfortable, this’ll be ready in a moment, _mon Coeur.”_ John beamed at the endearment and went to tug off his socks and change into soft bottoms and one of Sherlock’s old worn-out tee shirts. He padded back into the kitchen barefoot, a stark contrast to Sherlock’s newfound beauty.

“Oh, no. Did I ruin the image? I can go put my trousers back on—” John was stopped by a firm hand around his wrist before he could get back out of the room, Sherlock guiding him back to the remarkably clean table.

“No, John. I told you to get comfortable, and you did. I am, so now we can eat? And answer your more vexing questions?” Sherlock asked, voice low and patient. John doesn’t think he’s ever quite heard it so soft, but he can’t get enough of it.

“I…yes. Let’s.” John digs into his salmon, thinking about which question to start with as he chews. Sherlock picks delicately at the plate, across from the doctor. John can see the tension returning. He doesn’t want that; never that.

“Okay. When did this all start? Your…” Curiosity doesn’t seem like the right word, certainly not perversion. “cross-dressing?” John makes it a question, the label open for debate.

“There was a rough patch of time for me after university. I…that’s when the drugs happened, well when they _began,_ and I chanced upon this idea when I was in rehab once. It helps, sometimes. But honestly John, I know who I am and what I am, as do you. The hedging around pronouns is dull. I’ll just be Sherlock, alright?”

“Fair enough. I do like it. I mean, you’re beautiful either way, but I just want you to be comfortable in your skin, and in whichever clothes you prefer to have on at the time. Or none,” John added with a salacious wink that was overdramatized to good effect. Soon they were both laughing and putting their plates in the sink. John got acquainted with those knickers very thoroughly that night on the sofa. And the bed. And at least one wall.

Now, though. Now it was almost a regular thing to come home some time during a post-case slump to find Sherlock in a dress or something decidedly female, cooking, occasionally cleaning. One time he was practicing oral sex on cucumbers, seeing how long he could suppress his gag reflex and the need for air.

That night had been interesting, to say the least.

Sherlock had let his hair grow out a little extra. The ringlets almost touched his shoulders when he did them now. John had his hand buried in deep. Coaxing little moans out of the detective as she writhed on his lap, naked except this superbly fitting lingerie set. It was complete with garter belt and little clips with bows. For the love of god, _fucking tiny pink bows_ on Sherlock’s powerful thighs. John’s other hand was sliding its way up and under the tight black lace g-string, holding a slim pink cock tight against overheated skin. He slid his fingers back and growled against Sherlock’s mouth at the feel of a rubber disc spreading his cheeks just a tiny bit apart.

“You prepped?” he let go of Sherlock’s mouth for a quick second to check. Usually Sherlock prepped with his largest plug for these nights. Something about making sure John could “slide right into his wet pussy.”

“Mmmm. Of course, John. Always.” Sherlock gave a few abortive thrusts as John rubbed a quick palm over Sherlock’s erection and stood up, hands now gripping under the taller man’s arse as long legs wound around his hips. He carried his lover into the bedroom, setting her down like fine china before going into the loo to find the bottle of lubricant stashed there. When he returned, Sherlock was cupping and squeezing the fake breasts that were inside the special-made silk and lace bralet. John’s mouth went dry. He loved those fucking tits.

Sherlock looked over, his thighs clamping shut as he rolled over and kicked his feet in the air like a teen girl on the phone. John was undone by that arse wriggling, framed by the black garter belt, and he crumpled onto the bed, sliding easily between milky spread thighs.

“Where do you want me, love?” John asked, spreading Sherlock’s cheeks with his thumbs. “Tell me, Sherlock, honey.” With a reverent dip of his head, John tugged at the anal plug with his teeth, waiting.

Sherlock yelped and groaned at the sensation, forgetting himself.

“P—please John! In m-my _pussy_ , I need your cock, please. I love you,” she moaned, throwing her head back as the plug was tugged free and cast aside. Canting her hips up to let John shove a pillow underneath, Sherlock spread her legs wide, inviting John in with a muffled groan and a heady stretch.

When John bottomed out, it was like a benediction. Nothing in the world meant this much to him, to have Sherlock here, this trusting and perfect and in love. This moment, being with this madman in women’s lingerie. That’s what counted most.

“I love you, Sherlock. My beautiful love.” Sherlock rutted against the sheets, dying for friction on her prostate. Her cock was entirely ignored on these nights, which meant John had his work cut out for him. But he was old hands at this by now. He knew just where to thrust and when to have Sherlock’s toes curl inside those black sheer stockings, to have his ladyboy lover coming hard into those tiny knickers.

"By god, I do." John came hard and deep and grunting, stilling inside as they rolled over to spoon until sleep took them. "God help me, I do."


End file.
